Hellboy in Dead Space
by ShogunPrime
Summary: Dead hunt the living within the Ishimura. Survivors are few. Survival slim-to-none. To Hellboy, it sounds like a typical Monday. Only in space.
1. Prologue: Let the Living Rest

**Prologue: Let the Living Rest**

There was a ruckus outside. Inhuman screams bellowed through the metal doors. Creaks and groans had been the typical sounds these days and even then, very rare. Noise was always strange inside a tomb.

_Asylums must sound like this, _Greggs thought, as he stared out the window, wondering what moved in the darkness. _Silent. Peaceful. Then medications run out, and pandemonium ensues._

Perhaps that's what had happened. Greggs was an asylum patient, the commotion outside just doctors and guards bringing order back to chaos, one baton or pill bottle at a time.

Greggs chuckled. If only that was the reality.

His knees buckled. It had been hours, maybe days, since he last stood, and just five minutes of it was untenable. Inhumane howling, horrifying delusions, and a body dropping out a _rent_ _hole _in the ceiling onto a filing cabinet tended to sap one's energy, even if in a fetal position.

That, and the smell. Greggs pinched his nostrils as he walked towards the window. No air freshener can sweeten the aroma of urine and rotting flesh.

The wails grew louder. He winced. Whatever was out there sounded furious. What prompted such violent fanfare? Perhaps they realized Greggs was hiding in his office… He placed a hand on the window, and continued to stare out into the medical room adjacent his office.

The lights flashed on, and carnage was on display.

Hands and legs, chewed and torn apart, were littered across the floor and atop overturned stretchers and trollies. A torso, hip, or head would stick out amid the death field. Burgundy-tinted blood trailed behind like a glitching RIG's line-guided nav-system. Yet, in spite of the morbid scenery, there was movement at the room's far end.

Greggs pushed his face to the glass, nose squished.

They wore dirtied and torn medical scrubs, fabric bulging in the back, where neck and spine met. Hunchbacks. That alone might have occupied his mind for a few hours, if he hadn't noticed more alterations. Extra arms flailing around from the abdomen region, talons spurting around the ankle, and scythes that replaced hands. The latter change glistened.

Even though there were several inches of glass and metal protecting him, Greggs's legs wobbled._ Don't piss yourself-again. Maintain a little dignity, George._

Instinctively, without care, his hands went to his right breast pocket. What lay inside it, what he felt beneath the fabric, gave him comfort.

Nausea struck Greggs. Terrifying images, worse than the monstrous assembly outside, assaulted his mind. Intestines were piled at his feet, falling out a cut gut like a C-section gone wrong. Talons descended upon his person, pecking out his flesh, one painful stab after another. Air fled his lungs. Another corpse soon—

The lights flipped off, and everything was gone. Sudden darkness erased the visages, real and imaginary. As Greggs calmed, he noted his hands were gripped around his neck.

Greggs released his hold, and breathed. The terror experienced in the last few minutes caused his heart to pound inside his chest like a pneumatic hammer. Situation considered, a heart attack was a pleasant end.

There was a loud thump. Greggs looked up and lost his breath once more. A red Rorschach blot stained the exterior glass window, its diameter spreading like a fast-growing cancer. Not fast enough, though, to obscure the source.

Milk gray eyes stared at Greggs. The globular organs were like any found in any corpse, in any morgue. That hazy film, decomposition's earliest sign, represented finality. Perhaps that was why he failed to comprehend what his own eyes saw: an adult male corpse with a cracked open skull and a hole for a lower jaw, scanning his office through the window.

The corpse's eyes settled on him. Its bloodied, pale face a scowl. Greggs took a step back.

A roar, deep and penetrating like an ultrasound, echoed throughout the room. He dropped to his knees. Submission angered the corpse more. Its face clenched so that its brow and forehead melded together into a dozen horizontal ridges. A blood streak (from the head wound) raced across the skin folds like a red river through a tan-yellow canyon. Its…mouth-hole suddenly expanded, displaying rows and rows of serrated teeth. The expression was similar to the shark photos in his e-books: wrathful and ugly.

Bile exited Greggs' mouth. After a few agonized coughs, he was on his hands and knees. Somehow, he had enough strength to keep from falling into the vomit pile before him. The corpse roared and screeched; Greggs sobbed in counter.

Greggs tried to reach for his breast pocket, but lost his balance and fell face first into the vomit. He laid there. Face and hair covered in yellow spew, slowly drying and caking, head turned so he could breath. A spoiled milk aroma polluted his nostrils. Tears streamed from his eyes. A soft wail escaped his lips.

_What's the point? _–Greggs's wails turned into deep, long moans—_Survival is moot in a ship where the dead creep inside every vent! _

The corpse now banged at the door, trying to tear it down. How long? A few minutes? An hour? Greggs would probably pass out from exhaustion before then. That was a relief, of sorts.

"Hey! Anyone in there!"

Greggs raised his head. _The dead speak, too? _

Doubt kept him still, though. How could someone survive the monsters out there? That possibility was improbable in a ship-turned-charnel house.

More bangs followed. Whatever was on the door's other side wanted an answer.

The weight in his breast pocket permitted a brave thought: _Perhaps it is not a corpse… _

Greggs raised himself up. His still shook, but got onto his feet anyway. Before long he was striding towards the door. "Who is out there!"

The pounding stopped. "Bruce Campbell in _Evil Dead: Space Edition._"

Popular culture wasn't his expertise, but Greggs recognized sarcasm. Only the living snarked back at simple questions. The organ replacement technician smiled.

A handwave, and the door receded in the wall to the right. Expectation was that he'd greet his savior face-to-face. Instead he stared at bare pectoral muscles. Red pectoral muscles. The singular pigmentation, against a hastily tied together white loincloth, guided his eyes downward. Coal black hooves—and a hairless, segmented tail resting on the floor—were easily observed.

The red savior took a knee, and Greggs lost his breath. Plain features such as a raven-black goatee and sideburns clashed against extraordinary amber eyes. Horn stubs stuck out from a wide forehead, frightening despite their pointlessness. A fantastic face for this realistic nightmare.

"You okay?" the red savior asked in a scratchy baritone voice.

Greggs's lips moved about an inch apart, before consciousness left him.

* * *

**A/N: This is a first...everything. First chapter, first story, first author's note. It's a little daunting (and scary). All I can say is this: I'm happy to have grown confidant in my own craft to publish a work that others-complete strangers-may read, and (perhaps) enjoy. Before anyone asks, though, I am writing the first official chapter, along with other prologues and chapters for other stories. I should hopefully have more published in six months. Job and school willing. In the meantime, leave a review or a like. And have a happy holiday, and a happy new year!**


	2. Chapter 1: Under Examination

**Chapter 1: Under Examination**

Faint light flickered through his eyelids, waking him up from the worst sleep he had had in a while. He let out a big yawn and dragged himself up (cracking stone with his right grip). As he opened his eyes and stretched a bit, he made a few observations: he was no longer in an Iberian forest, but instead was in an enclosed room; said room had futuristic medical instruments and holograms that displayed numbers and Semitic script. There were body parts chopped to bits.

Hellboy, paranormal investigator, sighed and lifted himself up. He leapt out of the coffin, noting a draft below his torso as his hoofs hit the floor. He looked down. "Who knocks out a guy, and steals his clothes?" Hellboy mumbled.

He squatted down to look at a severed arm. Slash marks, much like a griffon's, pattern-less in their application, ran long and deep into the flesh. Something this violent required a weapon, something more than Hellboy's right stonehand. After a brief search, though, he found nothing.

Hellboy decided to leave the room. He headed over to the door, which was slightly agape, grabbed the hinges and forced it permanently open.

Not as many corpses, but more blood. God, the blood. The gunmetal hallway from floor to ceiling was stained red—a colored testament to massacre. Gurneys and other medical equipment had been thrown everywhere. How many people had died?

Hellboy, his size somewhat accommodated from the hallway's height and width, went over to a gurney flipped on its side, soft mattress facing out. As he bent over to pick it up, the object shook. Experience from exorcisms and hauntings caused him to jump back and reach for a revolver on his hip. A revolver he no longer had… _Crap!_

The gurney shot up. What Hellboy assumed was a corpse rose from beneath it. Intestines hung out from an opened stomach like wiggling gray worms. Scythes sticking out from its hands were raised to strike him down.

_Zombies, of course. _Hellboy parried the thing's scythes with his stone right hand.

The zombie staggered back, mewling a little. Hellboy pulled his right hand back, moved in closer, and punched its rotten head off. The skull cracked like a bile-tinted watermelon against the wall. It still stood, though. It still moved forward.

Hellboy swept the zombie's legs, then moved back. It rose again, scythe-arms slashing around aimlessly.

_That's new, _Hellboy thought, watching the headless zombie striking all around. _If taking out the head doesn't keep the bastard down, I guess I'll try its limbs. _

He observed its movements, counting the time between arm swings. Satisfied he had found a pattern, Hellboy lunged into the zombie, grabbing its right arm mid-downward swing. He caught the other arm a moment later. Hefting his right hoof into its exposed guts, Hellboy pulled.

The sinews and skins separated, screeching like torn sandpaper. Yellow ichor flew. Its body's remainder fell back. There was no movement, not even a twitch.

_Tough ass zombie, _Hellboy thought, _and where there is one, there are dozens. _

Hellboy looked down at the scythes and had an idea. Laying the arms down at his sides, he went to an upturned gurney, grasped the side metal tube that supported the bed, and pulled. Metallic pops echoed through the hallway as he separated the bar, all the while looking down either hallway end.

Once the bar was free, Hellboy placed it under his arm. Hands free, he grabbed the bed sheet at the corners, lifted it up and spread it out. Estimating its length and height, he moved his left hand a few inches away from the left corner. A quick breath, then he ripped and tore.

The fabric made little noise. Hellboy rolled the small piece into his left hand then worked the larger piece into a loincloth that somewhat restored his dignity. Now to the final part of his plan.

_This is one of the grossest ideas I've had, _Hellboy thought, as he stepped over to the zombie's dismembered arm. One deep breath later, and he stomped at the wrist.

A squish like stepping on week old meatloaf echoed through the hallway. The hand—and the sharp protrusion that stuck out from the palm—was separated from the arm. Hellboy went down on his knees, laid out the cloth strip and metal bar, and started "improvising".

The broken wrist bone, decayed and exposed, fitted the pipe's opening. Hellboy then wrapped the cloth strip around the base of the spike, down several inches of the pipe before tying a knot. That done, he jabbed the air a few times to test the contraption.

_Not bad, _Hellboy thought, _Let's go exploring. _

Wherever he went, though, an automated door was there. Blue holographic circles (and a rectangle that asked: "Open?" atop that) projected from their centers. Rectangular digital signs flashed in the wall above each one, two descriptions displayed. First, in a white static font, was a room's name. Below that, in red font that scrolled from left to right, a statement about the room. On either side of these signs was a black capital "C" with a red orb attached at the poles inside the letter.

The barriers refused to budge, letting him know their disapproval with a buzz and an automated message: "RIG not detected. Please reboot RIG. If you have further issues, contact a qualified technician. Thank you." He showed his thanks with a swift punch from his stonehand. After such an exchange, repeated multiple times, he progressed.

The rooms he visited fit in three categories: medical, supply, and office.

Those in the "medical" category had medical equipment so advanced and expensive-looking that Hellboy wondered how it all operated. That curiosity was stymied from bodies, either whole or scattered-in-pieces, strewn around and dripping blood. He spent as little time as possible in these Sawyer slaughterhouses.

Some were small storage closets, filled with medical supplies. IV bags, gloves, needles, and more futuristic objects that Hellboy could only guess their purpose. Green, glowing storage boxes populated these places.

Most were personal offices. Medical books and reports and tablets were strewn across desks and the offices' floors. Some computers were on and logged in. Hellboy skimmed these monitors. Mostly patient profiles or medical reports half written and reviewed. There was an email opened on one. The message read:

**Dearest Emily,**

**I know despite my profession that I'm not the best listener. The last five years you have told me that you need me present—more present then before. It pains me—and hurts you—that it took me this long to acknowledge it. That's why I'm changing.**

**I have already sent my resignation to HR. Before you even ask, yes I have already gotten another job. A small clinic in Phoenix close to home. They treat those that our society has tossed aside like garbage. The pay won't be as good, but the moral richness is undeniable.**

**See you soon for many mornings together.**

**Your love,**

**S—**

The message, though brief, ended there. Only a single letter a clue to the identity of the writer. Emily's response was foreseeable: anger at her partner's continued negligence then sadness at their death and an aborted renewal in their relationship.

Hellboy grimaced. _When I find what did this, I'm beating the living crap out of it._

Hellboy kept going, dismembering zombies as he went. He eventually stumbled upon a dark patient ward. Light flickered on as he stepped inside. What caught his attention was on the room's other side: a living person staring out the window in a well-lit room.

Awakened by his hoof steps, three zombies rose. Their heads creaked as they turn their dead stares toward Hellboy. They roared as they charged him, knocking down IV's and metal tables. "Come and get me, assholes," Hellboy said.

The room went dark.

As the zombies' talons descended—their noise a dead giveaway to their location—Hellboy parried them with his spear's staff. He then cleaved the head and arms off the one on his far right. The other two, ignoring the butcher-work, attacked again.

_I wish I had a gun, _Hellboy thought as he jumped to the left, missing the talon swipes at the last possible second.

Before the zombies even turned around, Hellboy went on the offensive. One quick swing of his right stoned fist sent the closest zombie flying clear to the room's other side. Bones cracked as it collided against the window.

The other one turned to fight. Before it could, though, Hellboy had cut off its right arm. Ichor spurted from the stump. Insensitive to this development, the zombie surged forward. A stupid move. Hellboy swept it off its feet with his spear.

It fell back first with a spine-cracking thud. But started to raise itself, nonetheless.

_No. You. Don't! _Hellboy turned the spear point downward and shoved it into the zombie's exposed intestines.

With it secured to the floor, Hellboy stepped around to the bastard's left side and grabbed its swinging arm. Hoof down on its shoulder, he pulled the limb upward. The appendage popped out from its body. Almost instantly, the zombie returned to an inanimate state.

Hellboy took a breath. In that calm moment, he heard soft growling. Eyes closed briefly, he thought, _Stealth is not its strong suit. _

Before the last zombie got into cutting range, Hellboy struck it legs with his tail. As the zombie hit the ground, he was already atop it, dismembering it. When the lights popped back on, only the head remained attached to the torso. A squishy biology class dummy.

Sparing not a second more, Hellboy headed towards the lab door—and hopefully answers. As he approached, the automated lady-like voice sounded off. Despite how therapeutic punching his way through sounded, he needed whoever was in the lab calm. That in mind, he knocked on the door.

"Hey! Anyone in there?!" Hellboy cried, hoping his voice carried past the metal.

He knocked more. There was no answer. Hellboy, frustrated and pissed though he was, tried again. Whoever was on the other side had to hear something.

"Who is out there!" a loud, cracking voice cried out.

Hellboy stopped and said the first thing to come to mind. "Bruce Campbell in _Evil Dead: Space Edition._"

There was no response to that. Hellboy pressed an ear against the door. Dead silence. If bad jokes could kill…

Gears clanked into motion. Hellboy pulled away from the door as it slid open. Inside, alive but not the least bit amused, stood a tall, lanky man. He wore the same gray futuristic spacesuit and black boots and gloves Hellboy had seen on some of the inanimate corpses. He had a neatly trimmed black mustache and goatee—the former stained with bile much like his apparel—that was the same black as the receding hair on his head. Several bags under the man's eyes attested to a long, waking vigil.

_Has he been holed up in this lab for days? _Hellboy thought, as he sniffed a little. The reeking aroma shouted "yes".

The guy's mouth opened and he raised a gloved index finger. Perhaps he wanted to ask a question or make a comment about Hellboy's stupid loincloth. Regardless, the guy's legs shook, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head.

"No, you don't," Hellboy said, moving (leaping almost) to catch the guy like a wide receiver after a football.

The detective's right stonehand clenched onto the guy's lower back, his left flesh-hand grasping onto the back of the guy's head. "You alright, man?" Hellboy asked, gently shaking the guy.

A soft gurgle left the guy's mouth. His eyes opened slightly, then flew wide open as he realized who was holding him.

"It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you," Hellboy said as he set the guy up in a sitting position, hands on the poor soul's shaking shoulders. "I'm here to help."

"Wha—what…You…Oh, my, devil?" The guy's teeth were chattering.

"Sort of? But, again, I'm here to help." Hellboy nodded to his left. "I got a wake of dead monsters as proof."

The guy shook his head. Whether in disagreement—or disbelief—Hellboy couldn't tell.

"What's your name?" the guy finally asked.

"Hellboy."

"Last name?"

Question only the federal government and the UN asked. "Bruttenholm. Yours?"

"Greggs. George Greggs."

"Well, George—"

"I prefer Greggs."

"Well, Greggs…What happened?"

Greggs breathed, and figuratively spilled his guts. "A month and a half ago, we were unloading cargo at the Sprawl, excited for leave time, only to receive orders for immediate redeployment. The official communiques detailed a rich planet-crack. Rumor circulated days into our rushed voyage, though, that our employer, the CEC, had received an encrypted transmission. A backwater mining colony had found a treasure greater than any metal or mineral: A Marker."

Hellboy noted several terms to follow up on, especially the last one. The pause and wince when Greggs said that meant that was something important. He let Greggs continue.

"Apprehension and exaltation abounded in the _Ishimura_. Unitologists proselytized and converted parts of the crew in preparation for the prophesized Convergence. For everyone else, we worried. What would happen when we brought the Maker aboard? Would Unitologists remain peaceful, or break out into violence? If not, what were the implications for humanity when we brought it to Earth?

"Nonsensical questions, in hindsight. Because when the _Ishimura _got into orbit around Aegis VII, our destination, everything went wrong. The colony had descended into pandemonium. Insomnia and dementia were pandemic. Homicides and suicides occurred several times a day, like something had flipped a switch in everyone's brain."

A smile appeared on Greggs's face that caused the hairs on the back of Hellboy's neck to stand up.

"And you know how our Captain and his officers handled this?

"I can take a pretty good guess…"

"They brought the Marker aboard!" Greggs shook his head, as if not believing what he just said. "Then the colony's problems became the _Ishimura's._"

Hellboy nodded. As always he had stepped into a terrible mess. Time to start the cleanup.

"Where would other survivors go?"

Greggs stared at him, confused.

"Survivors. You can't be the only one."

Greggs thought for a moment. "Sickbay. One of them at least. There's a door and maybe several vents in each one."

"Each?" Hellboy said. "How many are there?"

"Three in total."

Hellboy groaned. "That's great…You know how to get to them?"

"Ah, yes…" Greggs seemed to lose some color as he said that.

"Good. You'll show me the way, my unofficial tour guide."

Greggs started to protest, but Hellboy interrupted him. "Look. Those things…" The detective jabbed a thumb . "They'll find a way in. Either through the vents or breaking down the door and windows. Only a matter of time.

Hellboy lightly squeezed Greggs's shoulder. "The best way—only way—I can protect you, is if you follow me."

The poor guy let the assessment sink in. He stared down at the floor; hands clenched over his right-breast pocket. For a moment, Hellboy thought he would have a panic attack. Instead he closed his eyes and started to say something but was interrupted.

A cacophony of surprise noise drew their attention to elsewhere in the room. Bone and metal cracked and groaned under the dead-weight of the zombie that stood atop a pile of cabinets and a human body. The thing was like the others Hellboy fought, except the clothing. Where others wore nothing or some futurist medical/science garb, this one had an industrial feel. Dark material and armored bits torn and hung about around exposed flesh that belonged to a burning victim. Half the skin on its face was peeled down, exposing yellow bone and teeth.

"Uninvited guests aren't welcome, pal," Hellboy said to the zombie.

A snarl was its response. Rude manners aside, though, when it launched itself off the pile, there was an unnatural grace. Talon-ended arms stretched out like a mantis's spiked forelegs. Sharp edges set to cut down prey. The sight hardly distracted Hellboy.

He pushed Greggs to the side, rose with right stonehand clenched above his head. One zombie talon scratched across the stone knuckles, the other was caught at the fleshy base in Hellboy's other hand. Before the zombie could strike again, Hellboy pulled his right stonehand back and down, then punched straight up at its chest.

The impact sent it flying. Well, most of it. The limb Hellboy held onto popped off from the shoulder.

_This is disgusting_, Hellboy thought. He ripped the talon from the arm's remainder. _And it's going to get worse._

The zombie was already clambering towards him again. The remaining talon-arm swung as if the other limb was still in place. Automatic action without regards to context. No bother to Hellboy. Made the next part easier.

He ran towards it, talon point held out from the bottom of his stonehand. Before impact Hellboy pivoted counterclockwise from his right hoof. The zombie, too slow to adjust, missed its mark. Hellboy hit his. The talon, with his stonehand's mass behind the swing, punched deep into the zombie's skull.

Jumping onto its back, Hellboy used all his weight to bring the zombie to the floor. It thrashed underneath him like an eel caught in a fishnet trying to find escape. He raised his stonehand and brought it down once, twice, thrice. The blows turned the area of the last talon-arm it impacted into vile pulp. When he was done, the zombie had dropped dead.

Hellboy rolled off the body. A sigh left his lips before he lifted himself up onto his feet. When he turned around, he saw Greggs curled up against the wall, eyes wide.

"Nasty bastards, right?" Hellboy said.

Greggs blinked at him. "Wha—what?" he finally blurted out.

"Nothing," Hellboy said as he tried but failed to get some yellow spots off his body. "I need a shower."

"There are showers in Crew Deck," Greggs said as he slowly got up.

"Where is that? And, back to the topic before we were interrupted, what do you say?"

Greggs nodded. "I'm your 'tour guide', Bruttenholm."

Hellboy smiled and lifted him up. "Now to find you a weapon."

"I know something that might work. We just need to detour to a surgical suite."

Hellboy chuckled. "Even zombies need plastic surgery every now and then."

* * *

Human. They were human faces, but disfigured. A deranged mortician had ripped a hole in their throats. Added limbs and talons presented a fearsome mantid visage. These monsters from some expressionists' sick psyche invoked a primordial fear, a primordial truth: they wanted blood and guts, her blood and guts.

"Nicole."

These monsters were not supernatural. Their tissue and genes were altered, not from an artist's broad brush, but a virus's mutative touch. This virus—to her frustration and worry—resisted every vaccination she formulated—

"Nicole."

—or knew. Every variable she changed, when input to the computer, gave the same projection: negative, the virus overcomes. Almost like the damn agent fought to maintain its viral potency. Perhaps she should have left with the others…

"Nicole!"

She swiveled around in her chair. The face that greeted her was plain human. No hole, and all jaws accounted for. His dark brown eyes were concerned, not with carnage, but Nicole's well-being.

"You alright?" Evans asked, rubbing a hand across his afro-textured hair.

Nicole relaxed. "Yeah. Engrossed in my work, sorry."

He nodded. "Everyone is on edge—and tired. I'm surprised no one hasn't collapsed or punched anyone."

Evans undersold the situation. Injured from all over the _Ishimura_ had flocked to Medical Deck, hoping to find aid and sanctuary. The staff, overwhelmed and under-resourced, had done their best, but the body bags still piled up. Then the things appeared, and everything went to Hell.

She had no time to dwell on that. There was still work left. Her workstation, a shamble of eight different colored computer screens, microscope, incubator, and a few tablets, contained or displayed all her research and projections. A monument to her failure thus far.

Nicole rubbed her eyes and stretched. "How are the patients?"

"Lost another one a few minutes ago. Several more are in critical condition. We're observing them, sparing as much morphine as possible to dull the pain," Evans said, closing his eyes.

The dark bags underneath his eyes—a common feature among the remaining medical staff within Sick Bay 2—marked how much a struggle the last two days were. It wouldn't surprise or upset Nicole if he broke down and wept. She looked around at the sixty beds, many either tables from research labs or pushed together storage containers with bloodied bodies and sheets, then compared that to the few full blue RIGS glowing in the dim light. She felt like crying herself.

Hope kept her from that, though. If her research panned out, this nightmare would end. She got up and placed a reassuring hand on Evans shoulder, and started to say some encouraging words.

Nightmares started to pound into reality.

Evans turned around and broke from Nicole's grasp. The nurse, like everyone else still conscious, listened intently to find where the noise came from. For a second, Nicole thought the things were attempting to barge through the door. A futile attempt, considering they barricaded this side with nonessential furniture and other objects.

The vent in the right corner close to the door bulged outward. Panic spread. Evans and others ran around, looking for anything that might double as a weapon. _Good idea, _Nicole thought.

She noticed a defibrillator nestled between two beds. It could buy some time. "Evans," Nicole said as she rolled the device over to the ever-growing bulge.

"Yes, ma'am?" he asked, grabbing an IV pole.

"Grab the plasma cutter I brought with me instead."

"What are you going to do with that?"

"A little surgery."

The vent popped open and horror spewed forth. It was even worse than Nicole's hallucination. What brought a chill down her back, though, were the eyes. It stared at her like a necrotic Medusa, trying to kill its prey through stare alone.

As Nicole charged up the defibrillator, an electric Perseus, the thing did something unexpected. It lowered its head and crawled back in the vent!

_What? _Nicole thought. She had never seen any of those things turn away from a kill.

"Here's your cutter, ma'am," Evans said as he stepped beside her. "Where are they going?"

"I don't know," she said as she grabbed the cutter. She aimed the tri-laser beams into the abyssal darkness of the open vent. "And I'm afraid to find out."

Bangs reverberated from the open vent. The racket intensified, more bodies drumming against the metal walls. Nicole imagined the horde that would spew forth, a throng of maws and talons.

Someone shouted.

At first Nicole thought a nurse or patient called out, but she soon realized the shout was from _outside_ Sickbay. She looked away from the vent (cutter still aimed at it) and stared at the barricade and door. More shouts. More howls.

A terrifying thought popped into Nicole's head. What if the things were strategizing, breaching the Sickbay from multiple points? That was possible. No one knew much about these things.

"What's going on out there?" Evans whispered. Another query Nicole was unable to answer.

The other staff and cognizant patients were staring at the barricaded door now. Whispers started, questions and prayers. Nicole heard someone mention that ship security was here to save their asses. If the officer she saw ripped apart was any indication, the things were favorite to win.

There was a frustrated howl, soon countered with: "Screw you!"

The crudity in plain English provoked an emotional burst. Patients started crying. Nurses joined them, with some falling to their hands and knees. Those strong "spiritualists" began offering prayers and thanks to their chosen divinity. Most common psalms were given to the Marker.

"You think whoever is out there will make it?" Evans asked, resistant to epidemic hope. "Get us out of here?"

Nicole closed her eyes. How she wanted to sleep. "Maybe."

"Maybe…" Evans repeated.

Nicole opened her eyes, to continue her watch on the door and vent. The racket inside and outside reached a fever pitch. There was a bang and squish, like smashed ripe fruit.

The Sickbay went quiet. Only the drip of IVs and electric beats of heart monitors kept the room from complete silence. There was no noise outside. Nicole stiffened, finger over the cutter's trigger.

A rattle oscillated from the open vent. Something thrashed inside, crawling its way to Sickbay.

"Evans," Nicole whispered, pointing to left of the vent. "other side."

The two moved fast, almost as speedily as a marine. Nicole, back to the wall left of the vent, held the cutter at an angle. The tri-beamed laser was a green promise of bloody decapitation. Evans rubbed the defibrillator's electric pads together.

Something popped out of the vent. Evans separated the electric pads and moved to electrocute.

"No!" Nicole tapped Evans left hand with the cutter's tip.

Evans looked at her as if she were crazy, then saw the reason behind her actions.

"Medical officer Evans," said George Greggs as he crawled out of the vent. He stood up and acknowledged Nicole. "Chief Medical Officer Brennan."

"Organ replacement technician Greggs?"

"Yes."

Nicole resisted punching him. The man, despite the awful things he was capable of, lacked the skills to survive this situation alone. That was evidence enough that someone helped him.

"You alright?" Nicole asked.

Greggs, disheveled and soiled all over, nodded. He looked over at the barricade. "May I have some help taking that down? Bruttenholm can't fit in the vent."

Bruttenholm? Nicole knew nobody with that name, but she was still new to the _Ishimura_. If the guy kept someone as problematic as Greggs alive then he was welcome. Besides Greggs was already breaking the barricade down.

"Evans. Help Greggs."

"Yes, ma'am."

Nicole resumed her vigil over the vent, occasionally glancing over to see how the deconstruction went. Two other nurses—Raj and Finley—had joined them. She tried not to worry about what patients weren't receiving treatment.

Sooner than expected, they had the barrier down, constituent parts set to either side of the door. Greggs stepped up to the door and opened it. Someone screamed. A nurse stepped back and fell atop a supply crate. Evans and Nicole and everyone else froze in place, staring at what stepped on in.

The only coherent thought—one that her boyfriend would appreciate—was: _what a huge tiefling! _A devout patient, one either asleep or comatose earlier, articulated a more mature response.

"Altman fuck me! I'm in Hell!"

"Buddy," the big tiefling said, "You stepped in it long before I got out of the coffin this mornin'."

The big tiefling in question looked around the room, his amber eyes lanterns in the dim light. "Who's in charge?"

All eyes slowly settled on Nicole. Greggs, as if tattling to a teacher, pointed at her. _Thanks everyone, _Nicole thought.

"I am!" Nicole strode toward the big tiefling as confidently as possible. "Nicole Brennan. Chief Medical Officer."

She stuck her right hand out. The big tiefling reciprocated. His right hand engulfed her hand and forearm in a granite grip. It felt warm, like touching nearly cooled molten rock. "Hellboy. Paranormal investigator," he said.

Nicole shook her head. "Of course."

There was an all too familiar electronic screech: flatline. The nurses, and Greggs, went into action without Nicole asking. Evans especially, who ran back over to the defibrillator beside the vent. Without a glance, Nicole waved Hellboy to follow her.

She led him to her makeshift workstation. The hoofbeats were audible even with the shouts and crying. Nicole took a seat.

"Level with me, Nicole," Hellboy said, leaning in close to her. He smelt like burnt peanuts. "How screwed are we?"

Nicole almost laughed. "Very."

"I assumed so, but always good to get a second opinion."

"Not funny."

"Wasn't trying."

Hellboy stared at the screens. "This is some serious science here."

"Yeah. I'm trying to understand those things."

"Any insights besides tearing them limb from limb?"

"A recombinator virus enters a host from one of many possible vectors, mutates everything down to the chromosome until the host transforms into a form suited to further the virus' spread. Preferred material is necrotic tissue."

Hellboy nodded. "Zombie plague from space swine-flu. That's a new one."

"Except this 'swine-flu' spreads faster than any other infectious disease I know of. That, and the rapid adaptation has ruined any treatments I have tested. A cure, so far, is far-fetched."

"Which is what you're aiming to do. In-between keeping the ship from sinking, figuratively."

Despite his peculiar choice in wardrobe (or lack thereof), the tiefling was sharp. If he hadn't stated his profession, Nicole would have thought him a mine shift supervisor or a detail-oriented tradesman. The hairstyle he wore—raven-black hair that had receded from the crown and frontal region grown long and tied into knot in the back—was like many a crewmember in Engineering and Mining Decks.

"That obvious?"

The two chuckled. Despite the madness happening around them. It felt good.

"Don't give up. I'm sure you'll figure something out," Hellboy said. That surprise optimism shocked Nicole.

"You have an idea what's happening in the other parts of the ship?" Hellboy said. Back to business.

"No. Our comms went down about the same time patients flooded Medical." Nicole grimaced. "We have patients from all over the ship."

Hellboy stood there, shifting his weight from one hoof to another. "How do we send an S.O.S.?" he asked.

"The Comms Array is adjacent to the Bridge. If you reach that point, and repair it, then ship-wide and intra-ship communication would resume."

Hellboy straightened. The paranormal detective, equipped with the knowledge he needed, began to stride towards the door.

Nicole shot up from her chair, grabbing his arm. "If you're heading back out there, could you find someone for me? She's a young girl, Lexine Murdoch. She's traveling with two security officers and a portly man."

"You know where they went?"

"Hydroponics. They're cutting through there to the Bridge."

Hellboy placed his left-hand on her shoulder. "I'll find her." He turned and addressed everyone: "Listen up. Bunker down, close off as many vents as possible, and go for the arms and legs. I'll be back."

Orders given, the tiefling started to head out. Greggs, replacing a patient's bandages, handed the gauze roll to a nurse to finish and shouted at him. Nicole noted how the nurse relaxed as Greggs ran over to Hellboy. They talked a few minutes, Hellboy shaking his head a few times before nodding, then out the door. Raj and Finley rushed to re-erect the barricade.

As this happened Nicole ordered Evans to weld closed the vents except one. This would permit airflow—and bottleneck any incursion.

Nicole returned to her workstation. She stared at the brain waves and gene sequences. More flatlines sounded off, more nurses screaming for supplies not available. As she focused on the hissing from the torch's flames, a terrible thought weighed upon her: pharaonic tombs had their entrances sealed. Yet, grave robbers still found ways to desecrate and plunder the insides.

* * *

**A/N: Well…a lot has happened. Story wise, as you have read, we're picking up pace. This was more set-up, but next chapter will have more action and horror and blood and guts. This should hopefully whet your appetite until then.**

** In real life—Oh, crap! My story is timely. That aside, though. I know I'm a bit late on publishing this, but I would rather release the best quality chapter I can rather then rush it out. In that light, I'll try to have the next chapter out in…seven months? Seven months sounds good. **

**Seriously, I will try to get another chapter out sooner then what it took for this one. I would also like to thank the readers that put this on their Favs and Follows, hope you enjoyed this chapter like the prologue. For everyone else, please leave a like and/or review. I would love to know what you all are thinking about this story so far. **

** In the meantime, stay safe out there everyone. **


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